Stroganoff
by Firnheledien
Summary: Alternatives for the boys. Not your usual--as usual. Chapter 6 (Cleanup) up. COMPLETE.
1. First Wheel: Onion

Stroganoff  
  
First Wheel: Onion  
  
Disclaimer: Every incarnation of Saiyuki escapes from my clutches. Dang.  
  
Alternatives for the boys. I know this is overused but give it a shot. Not your usual--as usual.  
  
Meant to be ruminated upon like beef stroganoff and savoured in every bite. Enjoy it as much as I did writing it.  
  
***  
  
Glass.  
  
There was blood on the floor. The thief didn't get away so easily then. Desperate . . . or desperately frustrated by the absence of the object of his material desire.  
  
The officer is a youthful, sparkling specimen of society: neat, polite, well mannered; and everything of marriageable quality. The glass ring on his finger ties him down to (quite surely) another equally worthy candidate.  
  
Decorum is a part of him. Indispensable; like the little black notebook he carries to capture more than just notes, but life itself. Like his smile that appears and disappears together with the notebook: in one effortless flourish. Fluid scrawls-almost indecipherable-decorate the yellowing pages with artistry unusually resigned to such a medium.  
  
Ink dances with a clickable ballpoint pen hinting at the merest shadows of the workings of a mind. A fussy tool for only the very meticulous that detest blots and smudges. A triumphant pas de deux comes to an end with a confidently placed full stop to mark the end of a carriage of musings. Glancing once to read--scribblings made in passing?--peppered only by the occasional stray diagram or telephone number that seems to have accidentally wandered into the maze that is his mind.  
  
He notes the spray, trajectory of the glassy rain now powdering the floor. Made with a gun. The bullets must have disintegrated then.  
  
Notebook disappears. Opaque glass, like a small moon, covers his right eye.  
  
Wrinkle just above the eyelid-just enough to be charming yet not enough to disarm. Satisfaction on his face is still in infancy. Like something he has longed for but dares not.  
  
Doctor's fingers tamed by precision search the shelves. Dry murmurs and acquiescing nods punctuate his observation. He seems pleased. His eyes dart like fish among the glittering pieces of gold, blue, orange, red, green.  
  
Hand slips. Just a passing overlook that draws blood.  
  
Thank yous. Unflappable. Refusing bandages and tea. Blotting absentmindedly at the red fingers unfurling on his handkerchief. Muddled smile matching a muddied notebook, yet foolish enough to finger a shard; banked by curiosity.  
  
"He was blonde, wasn't he? Violet eyes? Ambidextrous? Dressed in an irreverent interpretation of priest's robes?"  
  
He wanted crystal bullets then: this shop's speciality. So does the officer.  
  
Leaving, promising a return--when?--today, maybe tomorrow. He will accept a cup of tea then. 


	2. Second Wheel: Garlic

Stroganoff  
  
Second Wheel: Garlic  
  
Disclaimer: Run away from me boys, or I'll cook you and eat you. Yum.  
  
Hm, 2 reviews only. I really don't know what the people want so I'm surrendering to the plots that catch me unawares in the shower and then demand incessantly that I write them out. sf: Thank you for reviewing. Longer? Well, I tried to in this chapter. labrynth: Hey, you're from the CF forum! Glad that you like my fics and DAs. Enjoy this chapter.  
  
***  
  
Pinched lips, blue-tinged from the cold but so quick to give a smile. Pinched from caressing cigarette butts and a childhood of repression. He was loved--or had been. That must be it. How could a person temper hatred and humility? Only the divine found it humanly possible. How incredibly ironic.  
  
He must be no more than seventeen. Fresh-faced but the stain of brutality early in life shows in the lavender shadows that skirt the hollows of his eyes and the gauntness moulding the features. Darkened with regular abuse of bedtimes, drink and smoke but incomparable to the blackness that resided in his pupils. Fearful, perhaps forgotten but unforgettable even in his youth.  
  
Old women would be hushed, children would be mesmerized, grown men--grown men?--laughably, unbelievably stunned. Not by just the unmistakable hints of celestial favour that blessed the physical form but by the unusual, almost peculiar carriage that jostled for attention as well. He was just a boy (understandably) and acutely aware that he was in possession of a girlishly small frame. Nevertheless lean, flat muscle accessorized what would have been an embarrassing physique to flaunt in what seems an erroneous interpretation of a priest's garments. Of course, practiced practicality demanded that he drape the sutra in his possession across his shoulders--or was it just to make him look bigger?  
  
Wandering dark streets; preaching enlightenment suited to the wounded in a voice broken into premature maturity. Unaware of time or the systems used to control and comprehend it and give people a sense of its form. Anchored to nothing in the tossing seas of consciousness--maybe except: beer, cigarettes and empty memories turned into pillows for gentle repose. Intelligence means nothing to him, you are sure. Yet he cannot fully release himself from the prison of the knowledge ad affirmation of mortality.  
  
Purposeless in his purpose to rid himself of . . . guilt?--loss?--anger?-- naiveté? Ritual embracing of habits detested persisting until that day. That day--  
  
So clearly: you can experience the dazzling sunlight that blossomed from a frail winter sky. Blinding you with snowdrift when he first glimpsed that treasure . . . .  
  
Torn and tattered but framed by other more precious objects (in an entrepreneur's eye) like the fabled doggie in the window. Obviously, he could have--what?--begged for money, sold his golden hair, given up on cigarettes? All: choices that he says, you make, not let others make for you.  
  
So it was desperation that drove him to shoot the window, shield his face from the glittering shower and then reach in to catch the roll of cloth (preaching the exact admonishment of his very act and various punishments) lying in the bed of powdered glass. He doesn't know why, as he examines the contraband results of the exercise, the packet of (crystal) bullets.  
  
Was it their untraceable origin when fired? Or was it their spectacular efficacy in delivering the kill? No, none at all, he tells you with a point- blank range smile.  
  
"It just makes the violet of my eyes look better." 


	3. Third Wheel: Parsley

Stroganoff  
  
Third Wheel: Parsley  
  
Disclaimer: Takda hak apa-apa.  
  
Thanks for the reviews. I never really judge quality by the quantity of reviews but sometimes I'd like to know whether people read my stuff. *grins* This is one weird chapter. It's so hard to write the workings of a kappa! *Bows to UltraM2000* I'm only good at doing Sanzo, Gonou and Goku. I don't really like it but anyway: enjoy.  
  
***  
  
He knows where the teacups are; and the teapot, too. Removing them from their glossy stand, languishing polished by clumsy exactness because of his large hands but with a meticulous care that can only come from grasping at the light he cannot see. A sodden tea towel perpetually snakes across his shoulders.  
  
The cups are eggshell-thin and devoid of any fanciful filigree. Taking dictation from brutal practice: he doesn't need decoration that he cannot see. Handling them requires a lightness of touch that can be mastered only without the deception and distraction of sight. How could one handle such a piddling cup without breaking it? The mind and eye would inevitably pose the question of such a feat. A slip would be rewarded with a scalding from the minute quantity of fragrantly steaming tea he serves you, not enough to warrant medical attention but serious enough to leave a mark. Squeezing the cup in a sweaty palm could break it (such was his taste in owning the finest and most delicate pieces of porcelain). No choice but to hold it: poised on the lip of two fingers and a thumb, cradled by the other two, grin and bear the subtle prickles of heat invading fingertips.  
  
He knows where to offer a cushion. Long fingers, darkened by punishment taken from toiling in the blistering temperature of the glass furnace and a smoker's habit, argue with one another across the landscape of the brocade cover. Deciding--was this the one with the phoenixes dancing in the seven streams?--or was it the one with the pink lotus blossoms being picked by a smiling novice monk? To him, the exploration and decision takes only a minute, but you do wish he had carried on longer with such a fascinating dilemma that only the sightless could comprehend.  
  
Steam fogs up the eyeglass. He proffers a cooler batch of tea. Declined, he sits still--stiller than what is possible except for the continuous wiggling of one foot.  
  
Rapid questioning returns slow burn answers. But both have patience enough to sit out the centuries without getting anywhere.  
  
Red hair he wears short, or it would have burned off in the hungry, sweltering kilns of the glass workshop. If possible, he seems to want to consider going completely bald for a change, another retrograde fascination of his. Another obsession--matching sets: pillows, cups . . . determined to conquer his own elaborately unfinished blind jigsaw. He seems to alternate between garish elaboration and numbing simplicity in a conflicting cycle perceivable to only his intangible mind.  
  
Distraction from duty is not a problem; in fact it seems to come naturally to him. You can see why this shop is famous for stocking up on boilers in the shape of curvaceous women and impossibly irregular bowls that have no place other than in a bin. That was how the window got shot and the sutra and bullets stolen, wasn't it?  
  
"He's not a just a child. Boy monks don't carry guns." Too cheerful even after having his premises violated and his stock stolen.  
  
Black notebook banished into the deepest pocket along with the flipside smile that never lingers after hours. Tossing in a blindfolded sayonara. Departure. 


	4. Fourth Wheel: Beef

Stroganoff  
  
Fourth Wheel: Beef  
  
Disclaimer: If I claim to own Saiyuki, then I would lay claim to expensive lawsuits. That is all.  
  
Thanks to all my reviewers. Thank you sf for recommending my fic on your LJ.  
  
I agree the style has sort of changed since the last few chapters. Evolution: lovely. Here's the last (tragic?) chapter I suppose. There might be a fifth wheel (epilogue) to fit in Goku, depending on the response. Enjoy.  
  
***  
  
The body floating among the cherry blossoms in the harbour was unmistakable. Painfully alabaster; tinted with blue that blesses only the dead, an exclusive testament to the cold that possesses lifeless flesh. The undertow must have strangled this one. Water: slick on the sodden deck is clouded with blood.  
  
A bell tolls, dragging dulled tintinnabulation through the quivering air. Solemnly beatifying  
  
The coroners mill around, dragging body bags in a frightful quiet crescendo of rasping polyethylene, conducting their dreadful service in an altitude of indifference. They package it like a dead fish and ring up the scales. Paid for every pound that they process.  
  
But this is a small one, and they know its weight will be worth only a cup of feathers. Strangely, they do not remove the articles bound on the body. They suspend the black bag by a hook attached to a feeble scale, ignorant of the smell and the soiled water dripping from the tears. A few interesting oddities tumble out onto the dirty pier.  
  
A hand shoots out to collect them eagerly. Understandably: they are shiny and well cared for, and so, meriting some attention from the scoundrels that police the place. The officer tending his mug of beer trots over and bundles up the catch with a gleam in his clever eye. You know nothing would be going anywhere until the black notebook and the razor tooth smile vanished faultlessly.  
  
Long-nails stab at the muddied clipboard dancing haughtily with numbers in varying stages of illiterate scrawls, angrily, then at the informant. The weight was far too low to buy charter. If it had not swallowed that much water then they should have found it a week later--to get a better price. No one had even come to claim it since this morning.  
  
The muscle would have bulked up the numbers by more than enough but it had not yet reached adulthood and its prime weight. The soggy cloth had a capacity for water more than the owner and the weapons were worthy lumber to jack up the scales. The problem then, lay with the body itself. They would not pay for the cleanup unless the numbers fell within the documented range. The log could not be slipped either--the officer on duty had to be bribed or jerked-off to compensate for their day's wages.  
  
A glass ring flashes in the odorous sunlight. The bastard was married: he would be missed.  
  
He makes a concession then. He would pay the men what extra weight was needed to ensure the proper processing followed through. One more body clogging up the stinking river would not look good on his beat record.  
  
Flashbulb. Overexposed retina. Dental records would be returned later so that the bureaucratic whine could continue, away from the polluted scene. The Polaroid was gummed into the empty space and the cause of death panel checked next to drowning.  
  
It did not smell: the cruel harvest of decay had yet to arrive, it looked preserved perfection. Petals of blood touch the blue-clouded lips like a bitter price tag; cunningly studied in death. Sallow golden hair decorates leaden violet eyes: clear signs of divinity better appreciated at close range (when it was dead)--it did not give you such a chance when it was conscious. The affable, innocently available smile dealt damage unchallenged by any bullets. The bag is turned over, zipped up, catching strands of blonde hair that is soon ungraciously plucked out and flicked away.  
  
"Pity, such a beauty had to drown."  
  
He walks away as they haul it away into the blissful confines of the mortuary freezers and spray it down with formaldehyde. 


	5. Fifth Wheel: Chervil

Stroganoff  
  
Fifth Wheel: Chervil  
  
[Epilogue]  
  
Disclaimer: You tell me.  
  
Eat A Peach: Thank you. There might be a sixth to explain the whys.  
  
Blades of Ice: Sorry for making you sad during the holiday. It wasn't meant to be this tragic. Chaos Daughter: Glad that I was able to take you there.  
  
sf: I'll keep that in mind. I wanted to let the readers decide the whys and hows and debate it by themselves. YunCyn: Sorry about the first chapter.  
  
Drelfinya: Thank you. Gonou appears in the first chapter, not Hakkai though.  
  
I wasn't sure I was going to put this up, but people will ask: what about Goku's alternative? Try to guess his new master. *evil grin*  
  
***  
  
Deprivation and dehydration are no strangers to chapped, broken lips that long for the kiss of cool water and the pleasant tastes that accompany food. Sitting at the feet of a bare master to lick and beg with eyes that grasp at attention. Even if he did not look like a dog, he was leashed like any other.  
  
Mischief was broken from him so long ago, fallen into disuse from neglect in the practice of such a delicate art. To exercise mischief was a blend of curiosity and childishness enough to be adorable but just beyond the line of severe punishment. Remembrance of thorny elders and their spiny scolding in pale, nightless rooms has dimmed by staring at empty grey walls, eroding the self. Trepidation from fear and respect, misuse and neglect dominate the child. Nostalgic without even meaning to: because he has not been taught how to live in immediacy and abandonment.  
  
He is privileged enough to know the most baser of instincts and acquaint with desires that are nameless to him--unless you would call them Need and Want. Erring in everything because he has been told not to and so he must (and because he likes to).  
  
Scumbled shadows paint the shallow framework of his downy face, sullied and limp from hours of unsmiling and empty contemplation. Empty because he questions in feeling and frustration because he cannot find the words to think thoughts. Golden eyes feed on the less-than-lovely sights of decay and the residue of disenchantment crawling the empty passageways. What was once firm, youthful muscle, primed for development under watchful, loving eyes to blossom into fullness and strength now becomes as wasted flesh. Speed, ferocity, zest, impulse were stripped--leaving mere reserves of ghostly emotions to feed the empty mind and miserable stomach.  
  
He is not gaunt--not slender--not petite--but childishly slim. Managing to be baleful even from under the earth-row hair and enormous pupils swallowing the gold.  
  
Meals are the only tangible joys (for him) the person on duty of course, is terrified. Feeding such an animal takes courage and a blind impatience to be rewarded scratches and bites. Bare feet rock the bars and saliva is omnipotent when the hapless have to participate in his native fury during feeding time. He is simple to understand; only in two states: Nothing and Hungry. No action he takes to as discipline. Hit him--he bites; scream--he stares. Cloying indulgences have suffocated whatever inebriation he must have possessed.  
  
Only lately has he started to have a semblance of articulate ness. Something that his master has only recently started to inculcate--possibly to relieve some of the frustrations in communication.  
  
"Sssuh . . . Sssauh--Saaaannssss . . . Shh-aaanssssoo--zzu-ah?"  
  
The bunny doll jiggled enthusiastically, entangled in clapping hands. Oily cross-purposes weighing on his master's mind are difficult for him to muster. He only sees the food dangled in a condescending hand, laced with what?--just a mild sedative.  
  
"That's right, can you say 'Sanzo'?" 


	6. Sixth Wheel: Stock

Sixth Wheel: Stock 

[Summary and clean up]

Thank you for reviewing everybody!

These alternatives were not meant to be so tragic. Honestly. I wanted to just flesh out this story after reading about a security guard who was pinned to the floor by a robber and had a gun pointed at his head. And so I thought: Sanzo!

Here I will attempt to explain some of the weirder things that have invaded this fic. I hope all this stuff helps. If it doesn't. . . :

1. Gonou; NOT Hakkai

Look, I know I should have said this before or it wasn't too clear but I am not writing Hakkai. It is Gonou who is the policeman ad he's married to Kanan (hence the glass ring). He didn't kill 1000 demons and he's happily married. He's also turning into a Kubota-Tenpou-wannabe. Arrg: here's the explanation for your 'evil Gonou', UltraM2000.

2. Smiley Sanzo?

Yes, I decided to experiment with a smiley Sanzo. If he weren't grouchy, he would be smiley. He stole his master's sutra back from Gojyo's shop (look below) and crystal bullets. The demon must have sold it or dropped it, I don't know. You decide.  
He's definitely not as sullen as the Sanzo we all know and love but more like a desperate teenager on the edge. I'm writing him if he had made different choices after Komyou died. Like if he had decided to go about things in a slightly less destructive fashion.

3. Blind Gojyo

I'm guessing that a half-demon would inherit genetic defects like impotency (species are individuals that can breed and have fertile young but let's not go there) and blindness. He doesn't have the scars because his birth mother survived to raise him. He works as a glassmaker and he made the crystal bullets that Sanzo stole.

4. Drowned Sanzo  
I wanted cruel irony. He returns to the river of his birth even in death. Assuming he was abandoned upstream, now he dies downstream (hence the harbour).  
How did he die? Well, that's up to you to decide. He could have been murdered but I'm not ruling out suicide or an accident.  
The corruption surrounding the disposal of bodies mirrors WA a little too much for my taste but I loved describing all the dirt and pollution (mental and physical). Gonou is the officer handling the disposal (if you didn't notice the black notebook *evil grin*.  
  


5. Latent Goku  
I suppose that the centuries without Sanzo's 'helpful' stimulation would make any child begin to degenerate. What more under the manipulative care of Ukoku Sanzo = Nii Jyeni! I'm assuming that he would have been released by Jyeni because of the little loophole of being released by a Sanzo and not just Genjo Sanzo.

6. Canon universe  
I know it tends to lean towards AUs like those found in WA but this story takes place in Minekura's canon universe. I wrote it slightly darker though, just because.


End file.
